


Stargazing and Truth-Telling

by earlybloomingparentheses



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Canon Compliant, Complicated Relationships, Friendship, Gen, Honesty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1589426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A month after the events of "Exit Wounds," Jack Harkness heads off to an unknown galaxy on a mission for UNIT, and Ianto and Gwen are left behind to stare up at the stars and wonder when he's coming back. As a small act of rebellion against Jack's perpetual mysteriousness, they decide to play a game: they have to answer each other's questions with absolute honesty. There's a lot Ianto needs to get off his chest, his feelings about Jack Harkness not least, but the truth is tricky--it's never safe, and it's certainly never easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stargazing and Truth-Telling

It’s an unseasonably warm September night in Cardiff, and Ianto and Gwen are sitting by the bay. The lights of the city are glimmering in the water, but the two friends are looking up, at a different landscape of lights entirely. The stars aren’t ever easy to see in Cardiff, but tonight they seem even harder to make out. Perhaps that’s because Jack is up there, somewhere, and every tiny twinkling speck, there and then gone, might be him, on his way home. 

He’s not with the Doctor, and Ianto can’t help but find that a relief. He’s on loan to UNIT, on some ultra-classified but supposedly brief mission. Despite the fact that Ianto doesn’t know what he’s doing or if it’s dangerous (of course it’s dangerous, a voice in his head supplies ruthlessly), at least there’s no chance that Jack will decide he wants to stay on with the heavily bureaucratic, rules-and-regulations-obsessed UNIT, cute red uniform caps or no. 

“I wish he’d told us where he was going,” Ianto confesses, breaking the contemplative silence that spools around them like spider-thin thread, an endless feed of unanswered questions wrapping them in an invisible cocoon. “And when he’d be back.” 

Gwen snorts. “Sod that,” she says, and maybe her silence wasn’t so contemplative after all. “I wish he’d taken us with him.”

Ianto says nothing, just stares up at the sky. Gwen always has expected more from Jack than Ianto does, always has believed that she deserves more from the Captain than he gives. Ianto wonders where she obtained that rock-solid self-confidence, that faith in her own just desserts. He has always felt lucky for whatever Jack tosses his way—has felt privileged, even, because Jack isn’t like them. Jack is unique, and Jack doesn’t owe them anything.

“He did promise he’d come back, though,” Gwen says, softer now, and Ianto can feel her eyes on him, searching, sympathetic. She frowns, definitely contemplative this time, and sits back, looking out over the water. 

“You know, I can’t remember him ever doing that before,” she says. “Promising to come back, I mean. Not even when going out for a coffee.” 

“He hasn’t,” Ianto says quietly. “This is the first time.” 

Because he knows, of course he knows. Of course he’s kept track. When Jack disappeared after Abaddon—ran off with the Doctor, and god, how long ago that seems now—Ianto had searched his memory for any indication that Jack had ever intended to stay with Torchwood, anything he’d said that suggested Torchwood was more than a way station while he waited for something bigger and better to come along. Ianto had come up blank. And from the bits and pieces that Jack had let slip after his return, Ianto gathered that he had been waiting for the Doctor for over a century—ready to leave at any moment, without warning, without looking back. 

And, true, things were different once Jack returned—but not that different. Ianto wasn’t sure if it was habit, or if Jack, in his heart of hearts, was still waiting for the Doctor to return again, but Jack made no promises about staying, not even casual ones. Ianto felt paranoid sometimes, worrying, when Jack went out for a couple of hours to do nothing more serious than a routine Weevil sweep, if he was ever coming back. 

But this time he _had_ promised. 

“Bloody hell,” Gwen says, her voice full of awe. “The first time.” She laughs. “No wonder it felt so— _special,_ then. God, like he was, I dunno, giving us a knighthood.” 

Ianto smiles. “Or proposing marriage.” 

“To both of us? Don’t go giving him ideas, Ianto.” 

They both laugh, and Ianto is so relieved that he’s not alone in this, not alone in feeling happy and grateful and _chosen_ because Jack finally, finally gave his word that he’d return. 

“Bit sad, though, isn’t it?” Gwen adds.

 “What is?” 

“Well. I mean, think about it. All Jack did was say, basically, ‘I won’t go running away to the ends of the universe without warning you first,’ and it’s like he’s done something amazing. And we’re so _proud_ , so happy. Just—seems a bit pathetic, really.” 

“Ah,” Ianto says, voice going flat, because _pathetic_ is a word he’s tossed at himself several thousand times since beginning his _whatever-it-is_ with Jack, and hearing Gwen say it aloud makes it even more true. “I suppose it is.” 

Gwen sighs. “Sometimes I just want to grab him, you know? Just—grab his face, and say, _Jack._ Who are you, really? Where are you from, and when?” 

“And how did you end up in Cardiff,” Ianto adds. 

“And that whole _immortality_ thing, you know. How exactly did that happen?” 

Ianto barely lets himself consider asking those questions, most days. He smiles nervously at the thought. “Imagine his face, though.” 

Gwen snorts. “I don’t have to. I have asked him all that, at one point or another. He just won’t give a straight answer.” 

Ianto tries not to have feelings about this—tries not to be jealous that she’s asked, or pleased that Jack hasn’t told her either. 

“Have you ever asked him?” Gwen turns to look at him, curious. 

Ianto shakes his head, not meeting her eyes. “I’ve…never thought it was worth the risk.” 

The risk of Jack running away, he means. Of Jack breaking things off because Ianto wants too much. Better not to know, and Jack doesn’t owe Ianto anything anyway. 

“It’s not just Jack, though, is it?” Gwen shrugs. “It’s bloody Torchwood. Keeping secrets. We all do it. I was thinking about it at—at Tosh’s funeral. All those relatives, and I’d never even met one of them. And Owen—I had no idea he’d been engaged. It’s like—like a habit, by now.” 

Ianto knows as much about Torchwood and keeping secrets as anyone. He squirms, a little guiltily. “Not a habit I’d know how to break, though,” he confesses.

“Mmm,” Gwen says, in that tone she has when she’s working something out, something very Gwen-like, which might not bode entirely well for everyone else. Sure enough, her face lights up in a gap-toothed smile, and Ianto feels a flutter of trepidation. “I have an idea!” 

“Oh, yes?” Ianto says as neutrally as possible. 

“Radical honesty!” 

Ianto blinks. “What’s that, then?” 

“For the next—oh, I dunno, hour,” Gwen begins, excited as a schoolgirl (albeit a very deadly one), “you and I can ask each other anything we like, anything at all, and we have to answer completely honestly.” 

Ianto’s eyebrows nearly shoot up through his forehead. “Good thing I had that pint before this,” he mutters. 

“No, really, Ianto—what do you say?” Some of the youthful glee has gone out of Gwen’s face, and another typical Gwen expression appears—stubborn determination, denying anyone to defy her. Ianto can’t help but love that expression, no matter what chaos it portends; sometimes he’d give anything to try it on himself. 

“Come on, Ianto. Before he comes back.” 

She jabs a finger up at the stars, and Ianto understands. Jack, keeper of secrets and silences, is away, and in his absence his two most devoted friends will stage their own small rebellion, and tell each other everything. 

“Okay,” he says, heart suddenly pounding. “Let’s do it.” 

A brilliant smile breaks across Gwen’s face. “Yes!” She turns to face him fully, drawing one leg up on the bench, and they look at each other for a long moment. 

“Okay,” Gwen says, giggling. “I, er…god, I don’t know where to start. Ha. Okay. Erm—first bloke you ever snogged.” 

Ianto’s breath freezes in his throat. Gwen meant this to be an easy question, he understands that, a slumber-party question, silly, not revealing at all, but… 

“Jack,” he answers quietly. 

“I—oh.” Gwen’s eyes widen. “Oh, I—I didn’t know.” She pauses for a moment, worrying at her lip. “Was it—was it hard, growing up? Did your parents not approve?” 

She means so well, and she’s so off the mark. Ianto had no idea he’s never told her this before. A habit of keeping secrets, indeed. 

“They wouldn’t have,” he replies, “but I wasn’t gay. I’m—not, really, I don’t think. Jack’s the only man I’ve ever…” 

He hesitates, and _damn_ his stupid face for growing pink, damn him for tripping over the words, he really is pathetic. 

“—fancied.” 

“—shagged,” Gwen supplies simultaneously, and then blushes a little herself. “Right. Well…” She gives him a roguish grin. “Jack does like being the exception to the rule.” 

Ianto smiles back gratefully. “He does. So, erm…what about you?”

“What? Oh!” Gwen laughs. “Right. Erm, first boy I ever snogged was Ian Davies. We were twelve. I fancied his older brother, but he was too cool for me, so I kissed Ian instead.” 

“And was he a satisfactory consolation prize?” Ianto enquires seriously. 

“Well…” Gwen has the grace to look embarrassed. “I did snog his brother, too, a year later.” 

Of course she did. Ianto raises an eyebrow with mock solemnity. “And which was better?” 

“Oh, you know, boys at that age—all teeth, and wet—” She makes a face. 

Ianto shudders. “Perhaps I’m glad I waited for Jack, then.” 

“Ha.” 

There’s an awkward little silence, then, as both of them try to think of something to ask. 

“Why did you join Torchwood?” Gwen says after a moment. 

“I—” Ianto’s eyes dart away from her, to the bay, to the pavement. She already knows the answer; why would she bring this up? “Lisa. To—to help Lisa, to—” 

“No—no, sorry, I—the first one. In London.” 

Oh. Of course. 

“Right,” Ianto says, trying not to sound relieved. He opens his mouth, then pauses. “I…I don’t know, I haven’t really…” He sighs, thinking back to being twenty-two, before his chief worries were surviving alien attacks and saving the planet and attempting not to let his heart get broken by his immortal lover. Surprisingly (and he must not have thought about this in awhile, for it to be a surprise), he remembers feeling just about as much stress and anger and fear as he does now. 

“I wanted to get as far away from my family as I could,” he admits, and somehow it’s like a weight being lifted from his shoulders, to finally say that aloud. “And I—” He draws a breath, remembering: _total honesty_. With himself, as well as Gwen. “And because my dad would have hated it.” 

Gwen is silent, and he finds himself hoping that she takes the opening he’s given her to ask more about his family, about his dad. There truths he’s left out, and lies he’s told (“master tailor” being the least of them), things she really ought to know about who Ianto is, who he used to be. Things he wants her to know that he’s never been able to say before. 

But her mind has veered off somewhere else. Her eyes are shadowed. “What was it like?” she asks quietly. “The Battle of Canary Wharf?” 

Ianto swallows. “Erm. It was—horrible,” he says, and that might not be very profound, but there’s really no other word for it. “There was a lot of screaming, and crying, and Cybermen everywhere…” He rubs his thumb and forefinger together, steeling himself to go on, because he has literally _never talked about this_ and even though he’d thought he was past the need to get it off his chest, this is a relief, telling Gwen is such a relief. 

“I honestly don’t remember all that much,” he confesses. “I was too worried about finding Lisa. It’s sort of a blur of running, and hiding, and then—when I did find her…” His voice trails off. The memory is safely distant now, no longer threatening to pull him into its black-hole depths if he gets too close, but it’s still painful, still raw. “Nothing else has ever been quite like that. Not even with everything I’ve seen since.” 

Gwen reaches out and squeezes his hand. For once in his life, Ianto wants to keep talking about this; but he doesn’t know how, or what to say. 

“Did you—even just for a moment—think about not taking her with you?” Gwen asks softly. 

Not taking Lisa with him. Not undermining the terrible cost of victory at Canary Wharf—not endangering the human race—not lying to his new coworkers, to Gwen, to Jack, and betraying their newfound trust. 

“No,” Ianto says, because it’s the truth. “I probably should have. Thought about it, I mean. But I didn’t. It didn’t even occur to me. Not even as a possibility.” 

“Oh, Ianto,” Gwen breathes. She sits back and stares out over the water. “You’re so much better than us.” 

Ianto looks at her, startled. He shakes his head. “No.” He knows now that what he did with Lisa wasn’t for her, wasn’t for anyone but himself. It was delusional and dangerous and Jack should have retconned him—or worse—when it all went to hell. “More selfish than you, maybe.” 

“No,” Gwen begins, shaking her head firmly; and then her face changes. “Unless…” she stammers, looking at him with wide eyes, “you don’t mean…”

Ianto stares curiously at her face, which is suddenly alive with something totally mysterious to Ianto. Her eyes flicker to him, and then away, and she bites her lip, hesitating. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

“I…” She takes a deep breath. 

Ianto waits. 

“Did you sleep with Jack to get the job at Torchwood? To get Lisa into the basement, to…” 

She stops. Ianto’s mouth is open, his breath frozen; something is roaring in his ears. 

“Is that—is that what you think?” he demands, the ground shuddering dangerously beneath his feet. “Is that—oh, God, is that what you all thought?”

Gwen shakes her head violently, looking like a deer caught in headlights. “No, no, Tosh wouldn’t hear a word of it, and it didn’t even occur to me, but then Owen said—” 

“Owen!” Ianto laughs, a harsh bark he’s never heard come out of his mouth before, and the ground is opening up, like in a nightmare, everything going garish and skewed. “Jesus, Gwen, that’s—that’s _horrible,_ that’s—” 

“Well, I just—” 

She’s still asking. This is what she thinks of him, then, this is the kind of person she thinks he is— 

“No!” Ianto bursts out, between ragged breaths. “Jack and I didn’t—didn’t do anything until months after Lisa. That’s—that’s the truth, Gwen, I swear—” 

“Okay, okay, Ianto, I—” 

“How could you—” Horror is being subsumed by fury, shame, outrage. “How—I wouldn’t—that’s _awful—_ ” 

“Okay, I’m sorry, I just—look, Ianto, it’s my turn, okay, ask me anything, anything at all—” 

“Did you ever tell Rhys about Owen?” 

The question shoots out of Ianto’s mouth, bitter and spiteful and he’d _never_ have asked it normally but she thought he would betray Lisa like that, betray Jack— 

“Yes,” she answers. 

Ianto’s bubble of outrage deflates, like it’s been pricked with a pin. There is a silence. “Oh,” is all he can think to say then, blankly, his head suddenly empty. “What…what happened?”

Gwen gets very quiet, all the spark and fight going out of her, all the stuff that makes her Gwen. “I gave him retcon first,” she says steadily, “and then I told him, and I tried to make him forgive me before he forgot.” She is silent, staring out over the water. “I think it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.” 

Ianto can’t think of a thing to say. It’s pretty bad, he has to admit, though not quite as bad as hiding your homicidal cyber girlfriend in the basement. 

Gwen sighs. “I’m so sorry, Ianto. It’s just—I know you’d have done anything to help her.” 

Ianto shakes his head, not angry now, but still wounded, and sometimes he just doesn’t understand the way Gwen thinks, the way she feels. “That wouldn’t have been helping her,” he says. It’s such an obvious truth to him, strange to even have to say aloud. “That would have been betraying her. I wouldn’t have done that to her, Gwen, and I—I wouldn’t have done that to Jack.” 

“No,” Gwen replies, quiet. “Of course you wouldn’t, Ianto. I’m sorry.” 

They sit without speaking for a long moment. 

“I suppose this is why we’re not honest with each other more often,” Gwen says ruefully. “I shouldn’t have suggested it. We can stop now—” 

“No!” Ianto says quickly, startling himself as well as Gwen. His heart’s suddenly racing again; a question has just slipped into his mind, sly and unwanted and possibly lethal, and suddenly he can’t stop playing this game until it’s been asked. 

“One more question first,” he says. 

“Sure,” Gwen replies earnestly, turning her broad, freckled face towards him. “Of course. Anything.”

Ianto swallows. He looks at her wide brown eyes, the gap in her front teeth. He likes them—he likes Gwen. He doesn’t want to know the answer to this question. But he can’t not ask, not now it’s in his head, this question that he’s been studiously _not thinking about_ for so very, very long. 

She’s waiting patiently for him to open his mouth. He breathes in, and doesn’t speak. She waits. Ianto breathes again. And then the words come out all in a rush. 

“Have you and Jack ever slept together?” 

Gwen looks startled, then shocked, and then worried, her forehead creasing and her eyes dimming. 

“Oh, Ianto,” she says, drawing out his name, peering at him in concern. “Sweetheart. No. No, we haven’t. And that’s the truth, I promise.” 

Ianto swallows, somehow not reassured, not yet. “But…did you ever…” 

“I thought about it,” she says matter-of-factly. “At first. Quite a lot. I’d have done it, too. He could have snapped his fingers…” 

She smiles, and then shakes her head. Then she bites her lip, and Ianto can see a thought appearing on her face. He feels a rumble of anxiety in his belly. 

“At my wedding,” she begins, “the Nostrovite disguised itself as Jack. It came into my room and it—it tried to kiss me. I would have let it. I thought it was him, I thought it was Jack—” 

She’s shaking her head, her eyes distant, full of some complicated emotion Ianto can’t identify. 

“I remember the way you looked at him when you were dancing, afterwards,” he says, the memory of that night, of the hollowness in his stomach he tried hard not to feel, rushing in on him with force. “I always wondered if something had happened.” 

Gwen blinks, seeing him again. “Oh, but it didn’t! Not to him, not to the real Jack—not to your Jack.” 

“I remember the way he was looking at you, too,” Ianto says quietly. 

“Well, but—” 

And then Gwen falls silent, and Ianto can hear the words echoing in both their heads: _radical honesty._

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. 

“They’re so complicated, aren’t they?” Gwen says, pensive, looking out at the bay. “Feelings. I’ve got so many, all the time, and they never agree. When I’m with someone, and it doesn’t matter who, I always want—something more, or something different. I dunno, I—I love Rhys. I’ve always loved Rhys, the whole time, but that didn’t stop me having feelings for Jack, too.” She sighs. “I dunno what it is. It’s just—one person can’t be my whole world. I’m not built that way.” She looks at Ianto with that expression she uses when she’s about to break hard news gently. “Neither is Jack.” 

“I know,” Ianto says quickly, because he does. Never mind that he _is_ built that way, of course he is, look at what happened with Lisa—because he’s known from the start who Jack is, went in knowing. “I’m not asking him to change. I wouldn’t even want him to. It’s only…” 

Ianto rubs his forehead. Gwen waits patiently, silently. 

“It was supposed to be simple, you know,” he says, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face. “Sex with Jack. No commitment, no feelings, just—just a bit of fun…but somehow, it got…complicated.” 

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” Gwen asks softly. 

“Oh, God, yes,” Ianto says, almost laughing at how obvious a question that is. 

“He loves you too, you know.” 

“I know,” Ianto replies quickly. He looks down. “But he also loves you, and he loved Tosh and Owen, and he loves the Doctor, and—” 

“Yes,” Gwen says. “He does.” 

Ianto swallows, feeling the old familiar shame at thinking about what he wants from Jack, the sense that it’s presumptuous of him to ask for anything at all. “I don’t want him to stop loving other people,” he assures Gwen, assures himself. “It’s just…” 

He tips his head back, staring at the night sky, at the vast universe whose endlessness is eclipsed, in his mind, by the endlessness of a single human man. 

“Out of all the hundreds of people he’s loved, the hundreds of people he’s been with,” Ianto says, so quietly he can barely hear himself, “I just want to feel, sometimes, that I’m—special.” 

His cheeks burn when he says the word. 

“You _are_ special,” Gwen exclaims, her eyes flashing as she turns to face him full on. “Oh, Ianto, don’t you know that?” 

He shrugs, not meeting her eye. It’s the most honest answer he can manage. 

“You _are_ ,” Gwen repeats. “Ianto, he promised he’d come back. For us, for _you_.” She jabs her finger heavenwards. “He promised he’d come back from the stars for you.” 

Ianto gives a hollow half-laugh. “I thought we agreed it was a bit pathetic, getting excited about that.” 

“Well, I’ve changed my mind,” Gwen replies sharply. She’s got it again, that _Gwen_ look, that don’t-you-dare-contradict-me-because-I-know-I’m-right-and-I-will-die-proving-it-if-I-have-to look, the one Ianto hates and envies in equal measure. 

“You know how hard it is for Jack to make that promise,” she continues, a bit gentler but no less firmly. “You know what it means to him.”

Ianto sighs. He does. He really does. But it’s like she said—it’s hard to feel special about something that, were it anyone else, would be such a given that it wouldn’t even need to be spoken. 

“Anyway,” Gwen says matter-of-factly, “Jack can’t be your whole world.” 

Ianto snorts humorlessly. “Why not?” 

“Because then there wouldn’t be room for me in it,” she answers, and takes his hand. 

To his utter surprise, Ianto feels his throat grow tight. He squeezes Gwen’s hand and tries not to let the tears suddenly glistening in his eyes fall. They sit quietly, staring out over the water, hand in hand, and Ianto is feeling almost at peace when a voice—familiar as his own but still electric, still like a lightning bolt straight through Ianto’s spine—rings out loud and clear behind them.

“What’s this?” Jack Harkness says, and Ianto nearly jumps out of his skin. Jack rounds the side of the bench and leans against the railing, raising his eyebrows at their twined fingers. “Not getting up to anything naughty without me, are you?” 

Ianto nearly pulls away, but Gwen holds his hand with a grip of stone. 

“We’re talking about feelings, Jack,” she says, somehow managing to be unfazed by his appearance out of nowhere. “Care to join us?” 

Jack gives an exaggerated shudder. “Count me out. I am famished, though. You won’t believe this, but the planet where I was working has a local delicacy that smells exactly like the lamb vindaloo from that Indian place down on Hope Street—and it tastes exactly like dog shit.” Jack makes a face. “I’ve been craving curry all week.” 

“Let’s go, then,” Ianto says, gathering himself as quickly as he can, smooth mask coming back on with the ease of years’ practice. He stands, extracting his hand from Gwen’s. 

“Good man,” Jack replies, clapping him on the shoulder. “Ianto, you’re driving, Gwen, you’re paying. No, don’t give me that look—you can’t complain, I spent all my pocket change on souvenirs for you.” He digs in his coat and pulls out a vial of something gray and grainy, presenting it with a flourish. “Ash from the famous volcano on Capison X. It erupts once every two thousand years. It burns purple, and it can be seen from three galaxies away.” 

Gwen raises her eyebrows. “Did you see it?” she asks, clearly torn between awe and jealously. 

“Well, no,” Jack admits. “I bought this at the shop in the space hotel’s lobby.” 

Ianto takes the vial of gray dust, inspecting it closely. His gaze meets Gwen’s, and her eyes start to dance. 

“Looks like dirt to me,” Ianto says. 

“ _Space_ dirt,” Jack rebuts, frowning. 

“No, I think just the regular kind,” Gwen puts in, taking the vial. 

“It’s possible you might have got a bit conned, Jack,” Ianto says tactfully. 

“I think this might be from my Gran’s farm up in Gwynedd, actually—” 

“Shut it!” Jack roars. “Not another word from either of you.” 

Ianto and Gwen smirk at each other and they all head to the car, Jack pretending to fume, them pretending innocence. Ianto’s enjoying himself almost too much to notice that the usual thing has happened yet again: Jack is back, and all his worries and wishes have gotten tucked up in a corner of his mind, ignored, because it just feels so _good_ to be in Jack’s presence again. There’s no use asking for more, Ianto thinks for the thousandth time, when what he has is more than he could have ever expected. 

And for the thousandth time, he almost believes it. 

Jack slides into the backseat of the SUV, still grumbling about how they’d better not talk if they can’t say anything nice. “On second thought,” he amends as he settles himself against the window, “I will probably fall asleep on the way there. I’m exhausted. Don’t wake me up.” 

And thirty seconds later, the car is filled with Jack Harkness’ snoring. 

“We love you too, Jack,” Gwen says softly, rolling her eyes with a fond smile. 

“Oh, is that what he was saying?” Ianto replies archly, amused, as he pulls out of the garage. 

“’Course it was,” Gwen answers, her tone suddenly sharp. “Don’t you know that?” 

Ianto shrugs, eyes on the road. “Oh, sure,” he says, keeping his voice light. 

“No,” Gwen retaliates, “no, the hour’s not up yet. Total honesty, still.” She takes a breath. “Ianto, when Jack says ‘I love you,’ can you hear it?” 

Ianto is silent. He thinks of Jack, of all the things he says and doesn’t say. The way he thanks Ianto for his morning coffee, not with words but with a cheeky smile or a hand on his wrist. His verbal acrobatics when he goes off on some crazy anecdote, eyes sparkling, words tripping off his tongue in ways that they never do otherwise. His tongue, and the wicked things it can do; the noises he makes when he’s got Ianto pinned beneath him, loud and fierce and joyful, and the noise he makes, almost too quiet to be heard, when he tips his head back and falls over the edge, warm and alive under Ianto’s caress. The sound of him awakening from a bigger, less pleasurable kind of death, the intake of breath that Ianto can’t help but share, every single time. The way he says Ianto’s name. The way he doesn’t need to. The way he promised to come back, all the way from the stars. 

In the backseat, Jack snores, and Ianto smiles. 

“Yes,” he says, realizing that there’s not a speck of dishonesty in the word. “Yes, I can hear it.”


End file.
